


No Love For The Wicked

by egelska



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Cheating kinda?, F/F, F/M, Falling in love with a straight girl is not a good idea, Lots of Angst, The Warden is objectively not a good person but subjectively pretty relatable, Unrequited Love, i literally cried writing this so be warned
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-07-26 06:29:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7563841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/egelska/pseuds/egelska
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Warden Mareth Cousland has fallen hopelessly in love with the Witch of the Wilds, who is hopelessly straight. If she can't have a happy end with the woman she's in love with, she's going to make another one, no matter how many lies she has to tell to get there. Since she was born into political intrigue, a life of lies doesn't seem too drastic, especially when it ends up with her on a throne. The future king is never going to be broken-hearted, because he's never going to know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sisters

Mareth hated to wake up to bickering, but it had become the norm. In fact, bickering was a very soft word for any conversation between Morrigan and Alistair. Today, Morrigan was laughing scornfully at him as he struggled to cook breakfast. Leliana or Wynne would have to rescue it, because Morrigan certainly would not, even though she had the ability. It was much more interesting to her to berate Alistair for letting the sausages burn while he played with the dog.

This morning, Mareth hadn’t even gotten out of her tent before they started to argue. She finally stuck her head out, then pushed her blonde bangs up and out of her face for a moment before they flopped back down into her eyes. Morrigan noticed her immediately, and her smirk turned into a genuine smile. “Ah, Mareth. Your fellow Warden could use your assistance, as you can see.”

Alistair let out a loud groan. “Seriously? The dog needed some attention! They’re not even that burnt,” he declared, though the sausages looked only slightly edible at this point.

Mareth forced a smile and ducked back into her tent to grab a cloth to clean herself off and a change of clothes. “You two go ahead and sort that out. Without bloodshed, please. I’m going to the creek to dunk myself in cold water until I wake up,” she said as she walked past the central campfire.

The camp was in hearing distance from the stream, but purposefully obscured by a strand of trees and thorny bushes. Mareth was always on guard to some extent, but this morning she stripped and waded in less carefully. It was a beautiful morning, if slightly foggy. That was better than a Fereldan downpour, though. The rocks were slippery on her bare feet, and she was sure she could see a couple of trout rushing downstream away from her. She slowly sank into the water until only her eyes were above it, then let out a long sigh that bubbled up on the surface.

A light laugh from the shore startled her, and she grabbed the closest stone immediately. She might be naked and sopping wet, but she was ready to fight. Then her eyes met gleaming yellow ones, and Morrigan waded into the river.

Mareth’s breath caught in her throat. She knew that Morrigan was silent in the forest, but she hadn’t even noticed her undressing. She hadn’t expected that Morrigan considered them close enough to bathe anywhere near each other, but apparently she didn’t mind. They kept their distance, and Mareth could only hope that she could blame her bright red cheeks on the cold.

“I could not stomach Alistair’s failures anymore,” Morrigan stated as she rubbed soap into her skin. “I assume you don’t mind my presence, as you haven’t said a word.”

Mareth forced a smile. “No, of course not,” she replied, and she was struck by how calm her voice sounded.

She couldn’t help herself. Her eyes glanced over Morrigan’s body, admiring her shamefully. Her friend was lovely, in her haughty, smirking way. Anyone would understand Mareth’s lust. Morrigan slipped under the water to wash her hair, and without meaning to, Mareth let out a soft sigh.

She was jolted out of her thoughts as Morrigan surfaced and spoke. “What do you think of him? You tolerate him much better than any of the rest of us,” Morrigan chuckled. “Perhaps you were meant to be. You are a noblewoman, after all. It would be easy for you to use this man in your favor.”

“I like him well enough,” replied Mareth. “I don’t plan on turning anyone to my favor, except perhaps you. I would prefer my old life back, but that’s not going to happen.”

Morrigan’s laugh echoed on the stream loudly enough that the camp could have heard. “You have won my favor, and you know this. You are the closest thing to a sister that I’ve ever had.”

For once, Morrigan’s smile was genuine. Mareth could describe it as gentle and sincere, both emotions that are rarely seen on her companion. But Mareth’s heart stopped cold at the word “sister.” Nothing Morrigan could have said was further from what she wanted than that sentence. Mareth forced a smile and nodded. “I’m glad, Morrigan,” she replied. “I am proud to be your friend.”

She couldn’t be sure if Morrigan had noted the tenseness in her voice. If she had, she didn’t say a word about it. After all, Mareth’s friendship couldn’t be doubted at this point, not now that she’d brought a group to murder Morrigan’s mother at her command.

She sucked in a breath and ducked under the water to clear her head. When she surfaced, she gave another tense smile and waded out of the water without another word.


	2. Friends

The whole traveling convoy wanted to speak to Warden Mareth before they went to battle. Morrigan was the very last, and by the time Mareth reached the end of the line, she was already in tears. Morrigan looked down at her shorter friend and spoke. She reached out and placed her hands on Mareth’s shoulders so that she knew the gravity of the moment. “I knew nothing of friendship before we met,” she stated, though even her calm voice shook.

Mareth smiled, trying to keep herself from blubbering. Then Morrigan finished her sentence. “And I will always consider you such.”

That was the last thing an already overwhelmed Warden could take. She let the tears overtake her, and pressed herself against Morrigan’s chest. Her friend stood tense for a long few moments before awkwardly wrapping her arms around her. “Live well, my friend. Live gloriously.”

Mareth opened her mouth to take everything back and to tell the truth, and through her tears, she managed to get out the first part of the sentence. “Morrigan, I—I—“

When she looked up to meet Morrigan’s eyes, she lost her nerve. “Thank you. You’ll always be my closest—my dearest friend. I am so glad you’ll be by my side for this.”

Inwardly, she was shrieking at herself. She could have told her. She could have ended this charade, and even though Morrigan would never return her feelings, she could at least have known they existed.

In that moment, Mareth committed herself to living a lie. As they proceeded into Denerim, she found herself wishing that she could give the ultimate sacrifice after all.


	3. Queen

These days Queen Mareth Theirin, once Cousland, held court in Denerim garbed in only the finest furs and dresses. She lavished attention on making herself presentable every morning, though she took great care not to cover the scars she’d earned in her time as a Grey Warden. After all, the country knew her not only as Queen, but as the Hero of Ferelden. Lately, things were off. She saw that her skin was greying, and a thumping lure in her heart told her that the Calling was coming for her.

But outside the palace, rifts had finally closed all over the city and the countryside, so everyone was begging the royals for help rebuilding after the death of Corypheus. None of them knew that the Calling was knocking on the doors of the castle, ready to take both its king and queen.  
Finally, Queen Mareth declared that she would be leaving the castle for some time. To all of her subjects, she was going to travel to Orlais with a group of delegates to negotiate about their newly blossoming trade. To King Alistair, she confided that she was going much further afield, and her purpose was to seek out any way to stop or slow the Calling. She could be spared, as she was only royalty by marriage, whereas Alistair was truly a Theirin.

Today was the day she was to leave.

Alistair was barely awake when she was heading out, so she pressed a kiss to his golden hair and murmured, “I will see you soon, and I’m sure my guardsmen will keep you updated. I’ll send you letters, of course.”

He smiled, and the love in his eyes tore at her heart, as it always did. His rough hand reached up to cup her cheek, wiping off some of her rouge as he rubbed his thumb against her skin. “All right. Be safe, since I can’t be there with a shield anymore. I have to trust some other men to do it. I love you,” he murmured sleepily.

Mareth smiled back. It was a routine now, and her lie was delivered effortlessly. “I love you, too. Don’t worry-- they’re paid well enough. They’ll do a fine job of keeping me safe, and you know how many daggers I can carry in a dress like this.”

He chuckled and rolled over onto his side, already falling back asleep. A servant would be by to wake him up shortly, but she couldn’t begrudge him an extra few minutes. So with that, she walked out of the room. Her dress today was meant for traveling in the Ferelden spring. It was a deep green with golden accents that Alistair had commissioned for her, saying that green and gold brought out her honey brown eyes. Everyone knew that it was his favorite, and so she was obligated to wear it often to keep up appearances.

Her guards settled her into the carriage with a few legitimate delegates she would be leaving in Val Royeaux. The journey would be short, with people she liked to chat with and many quaint villages to stop by on the way.

It felt like only a few days before the mountain passes turned to dirt roads, which then gave way to lovely, smooth stones. By then, they were comfortably within Orlais, and everyone recognized the Fereldan Queen’s convoy. Not everyone liked it, but they all knew who she was. That was life now. Before the coronation, she could still blend in with a crowd. But now that her face was on plates and tapestries, even Orlesians knew how to recognize her.

Val Royeaux was supposed to only be a stop on the way northwest. She didn’t expect to even see anyone in her chambers save perhaps the Empress, who visited once and then left her be. But late one evening, after Mareth had already changed into her simple nightclothes, she heard a knock on her door. A servant said hesitantly, “Someone to see you, your Majesty.”

“Send them off, please,” replied Mareth. “It’s late, and we’re leaving in the morning.”

A haughty, familiar voice answered from behind the door. “’Tis very rude of you to turn a guest away without even an apology.”

Mareth’s heart leapt into her chest and began hammering at her ribs. A knot lodged itself solidly in her throat, and she spoke again only once she was sure her voice wouldn’t shake. “Give me a moment to make myself presentable, then. Thank you for escorting her here.”

“Of course, your Majesty,” came the soldier’s rather intimidated voice.

She heard mailed footsteps walking away, and after they’d faded, Morrigan’s voice sounded out again. “I doubt very much that you need to make yourself presentable for me,” she stated simply. “I have seen you when your blood was mixing with the blood of darkspawn.”

Mareth let out a soft sigh and put down her powder. She adjusted her bedsheets and then opened the door, almost cautiously. Her friend gave her a small smile and stepped inside, then looked her over. “I would have thought a queen would wear more fanciful nightclothes,” she remarked as she closed the door.

The queen had to chuckle at that as she sat back down on the edge of her bed, leaning against the bedpost. Her voice was so happy she sounded breathless, and that took her friend aback. “Morrigan. You have no idea how glad I am to see you.”

“‘Tis good to see you as well, Mareth. I wish I could say that you haven’t changed at all, but…” She trailed off as she took a few steps forward, studying her friend’s face seriously.

Morrigan then pushed her hood back from her face and sat down at the vanity, inspecting the copious amounts of makeup that her friend had brought with her. “You are sick. I had hoped to see you in good health, but after all, you are a Warden before anything else.”

Mareth let out a sad, quiet laugh. “I’m dying, actually,” she stated bluntly. “I’m only thirty-five, with no heir and only a few years left in front of me, if that.”

Morrigan looked up, and Mareth read genuine concern on her face. “I would not have thought the Calling would afflict you so quickly, or I would have contacted you sooner. I have been keeping up with your exploits, you know.”

“And I yours. You’ve done quite well for yourself, I think. I hope you’re happy. Does motherhood suit you? I hear whispers, and I know enough to connect the dots.”

That brought a real smile out of the witch. She pushed her sleeve back slightly and gazed at a small, hand-woven bracelet. “Motherhood does indeed suit me well. I hope married life and life at court is just as fulfilling for you, my friend.”

Mareth paused for a moment to deliberate. She stared down at her own greying hands and traced the bright blue veins in her wrist with a finger before speaking shortly. “Would you like an honest answer, or a polite one? I know what you’ll say, but courtesy requires that I inquire first.”

“You know me well enough to know my answer,” Morrigan replied simply.


	4. Fools

Mareth gave no response and instead chose to gaze at the green and gold dress hanging in the open closet.

In a flutter of Orlesian skirts, Morrigan left the vanity and came to sit next to Mareth. Perhaps her closeness could coax an answer from her friend. She gazed from the corner of her eye at the changes in her friend’s face, unable to look away from the bags beneath her eyes and the corpselike pallor of her lips. Finally, Mareth looked back at her. Her lips, once peach but now tinged with gray, moved delicately as she began to speak. “Being Queen provides for any wish I have ever expressed, but this life is… It’s wrong for me. I was wrong to choose it. But now I am stuck in it for duty’s sake. My family would be proud of their little noblewoman.”

As she spoke, her words increased in vigor until the last sentence was almost snarled. Mareth grasped the sheets with an angry fist as she spoke. But after the words fell from her tongue, she looked like it had exhausted her just to admit it. Her shoulders slumped forward slightly, and she could no longer meet Morrigan’s eyes.

Morrigan deliberated for a long, heavy moment before she replied. “You are the most powerful woman in your country, my friend. Any other woman would be in paradise. Isn’t that what you wished for? What troubles you so?”

Mareth leaned forward and gripped the cloth of her pants tightly. She didn’t meet Morrigan’s eyes as she spoke. It was worrisome to see her so tense. She looked as though if she didn’t speak soon, she might explode. When words came to her, they came fast. “You told me that I was the closest thing to a sister you ever had. I never wanted to be your sister, Morrigan. I wanted to be your lover—no, I want to be your lover. Even now. Isn’t that pathetic?”

A laugh came rolling up from Mareth’s belly, but it was cold and hard. For once, Morrigan was stunned into silence, and Mareth took the moment to continue. “I kept that feeling bottled up for years upon years. I told myself that if I pretended to love Alistair for long enough, I would truly fall in love with him, and I would be happy. But I never did, so that happiness never came. I lie to him about it every day. And—worse-- I thought that if I forgot about you, then it would all be fine. That, at least, was somewhat truthful. But now here you are again, and my traitor heart is leaping into my throat like a lovesick teenager!”

She stood suddenly and pointed to the traveling dress she had been staring so harshly at. She gripped the fabric of the skirt in her hands, as if she was about to tear it in two. Neither of them were sure whether or not she would do it until she let go. “This damn dress- it’s his favorite, and I’d be happy if I never had to see it again!”

Finally, she turned to look back at Morrigan, and her face was despairing. “I would never have said a word, but I’m dying now, and that gives a woman courage. Perhaps it’s just how little I have to lose.”

Morrigan opened her mouth to speak, but Mareth cut her off once again. Her voice was faltering, and Morrigan couldn’t even look neutral as she saw tears well up in her friend’s eyes. “Look, you can leave now, if you like. There’s nothing you need to say to me. I made my bed, and I’m going to lay in it.”

With a flutter of skirts, Morrigan closed the distance between them and pulled her friend into a tight embrace. Mareth couldn’t help herself. The tears came freely, just like they had in Denerim. She knew this was no romantic gesture, but she couldn’t stop herself from melting into Morrigan’s touch. Morrigan pressed her fingers into Mareth’s hair and let her cry herself out until her sobs were little, shaking breaths.

“’Tis wrong that I never noticed,” she finally said. “For one who prides herself on her observations, you took me by surprise tonight.”

Mareth let out a weak laugh against her almost lover’s neck. She was simply relishing in being this close to her, with skin touching skin. It would never happen again, she was sure, and so she wanted to cherish this moment. “I know. I almost—I was so close to telling you, right before we went into Denerim. I could have ended this before it all began.”

“I can see that now,” said Morrigan simply. “You must know that I struggle with conversations such as this, but know that I am trying.”

“I know. And I thank you,” she murmured, suddenly attempting to compose herself and save any dignity she had remaining.

Even though she was attempting to put on a façade, the thought of regal dignity was laughable. Morrigan knew her heart’s desire now—and, she thought, damn that wicked, treacherous heart. Even Alistair acted more royal than how she was at the moment, and at that thought, she had to restrain a laugh. Her chest shuddered with the effort to keep it from bubbling over, and Morrigan took it as more tears. The witch was tense, like an animal caught in a trap with the door open. Scared of being in the trap, but also scared of what might happen if she tried to escape. With that image in her head, she let go and strode away. With a click, she opened the doors to the balcony and stepped out into the breeze. Her guards would have a fit if they knew, but that didn’t matter to her. If someone were to see her, they would have no idea of her stature. She would just be another rich woman in silk pajamas, albeit with ruddy cheeks and puffy eyes, gazing down onto the golden lights of Val Royeaux like everyone else.

Morrigan hesitantly followed and saw why Mareth wanted fresh air. The sea breeze blew cold down the street, but the view was beautiful. The canals were visible to the left if she craned her neck, and below them lay a small side street in one of the wealthiest neighborhoods of the city. The buildings opposite this one were not nearly so tall, so nobody could gaze back at them from a window unless they looked up. Morrigan noted nervously that in this light, Mareth was glowing. The golden gleam of the lamps almost erased the Calling’s toll on her skin. How had she never noticed this before? She felt blind, and worse, stupid.

Mareth didn’t even look up when she spoke this time. Her words held authority—they were less a request and more a command. Morrigan almost smiled. It sounded like the Warden and not the Queen. “You should go and rest, Morrigan. I should, as well. You know how to reach me if you so choose.”

With a soft sigh, she turned to face her friend and glanced upward. “You are free to do what you wish with what you learned tonight, I suppose. There’s no way for me to stop you. At least, none I would consider using against you.”

Morrigan kept her expression coolly neutral, hiding the thoughts she was harboring about her friend’s appearance. She had already shown too much weakness tonight. “Your words stay here,” she replied. “Good night—your Majesty.”

Mareth nodded. “Good night, Morrigan.” 

Now released, Morrigan gave the slightest bow of her head, and with a soft rustle of skirts, she was gone. She left the queen to stand on her balcony, shivering. Being called “your Majesty” by Morrigan felt utterly wrong. It was the last nail in her coffin. She walked back inside calmly, but everyone in the building could hear when she slammed the balcony door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was really tempted to have Morrigan respond not with "'Tis wrong [...]" but ["'Tis unfortunate [...]"](http://vir-adahlen.tumblr.com/post/71331616593/vir-adahlen-uh-morrigan-u-ok-omg)
> 
> Really, _really_ tempted.


End file.
